


It All Stays the Same

by animerag3



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Canon Universe, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-06 07:57:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21223208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/animerag3/pseuds/animerag3
Summary: How do you cope when the world feels like it never changes?





	It All Stays the Same

Simmons stared at the metallic glint his ceiling reflected.

It was never night in Blood Gulch. Even with the darkened drapes he put up, the sun managed to give off enough light to cast shadows across the room. He turned onto his side again. Maroon armor laid on the desk, polished for him to put on four hours from now. Where it always was. He flipped onto his stomach. The chill of the sheets had disappeared. He kicked them off, A/C attacking his skin. At least the coolant kept half his body decently regulated. Rolled to his other side. Stared at the gray wall. Repeated the cycle.

It had been this way for a while. Each night it took hours to fall asleep. When he managed to snag a few hours, he would jolt in waking terror. Sometimes he remembered the dreams. Sometimes he didn’t.

The worst part of it; nothing was bothering him. As he laid tossing and turning, there was no specific thought that drilled him. No traumatizing event replayed. Nothing. Just the buzz of the dull humdrum existence he was stuck in.

But it wouldn’t matter. The longer he stayed awake, the more he spiraled into a dark cavern. The ache in his body serving as a reminder of the lack of willpower he had to get up each morning. Knowing that he would put on the same damn armor. With the same damn people. Standing around and talking about the same damn things. Every. Day.

Once he finally clawed his way towards the door and out of his room, he could function. Go through the motions of the day like a normal human. The day would be bearable, sometimes enjoyable enough that the miasma surrounding him would vanish. 

And then he would get to his room. Unclasp the pieces of maroon armor. His body would grow heavy. Sweatpants and a shirt would drape over his rail-thin limbs. He’d collapse on his bed. And just stare. Get frustrated that he was just staring. Try to pick up a book, only to put it down when he was rereading the first sentence for the tenth time. Go on his tablet to practice coding. Only to stare at a blank screen as everything he learned disappeared from memory. Drop the tablet back on the desk. Go back to the bed and stare at the ceiling. Walk down the hall, around the base. Go back to the bed. All he could do was stare off into space. Sometimes contemplate life. Sometimes not. 

There was so much he could do. Things that he knew made him happy. Excited him. But each time he attempted those activities they seemed less and less pleasurable. They were starting to get categorized into ‘things he did just to do something.’ Simmons hated it. 

But at this point, he didn’t know what could fix it.

Each day was a repeat of the next. Had been like that for years. Even when they left Blood Gulch on weird missions. Or didn’t fight the Blues anymore. Things had been changing around him. But it was like it didn’t matter. His mind refused to see the progressions. The positives that came out of everything that had happened. 

That was the problem.

Even when things changed, they stayed the same. 

He didn’t know when the realization had hit him. When it started chewing away pieces. At what point it turned from an accepted fact into a never-ending spiral. 

Nothing gave him joy. Nothing really made him happy anymore. Everything was just the same. Even when things were different. It was the same.

And if that was all that was left to life, sometimes it made him not want to be around anymore. 

It’s not that he didn’t think anyone cared about him. He knew his team did. In their odd ways. Grif making sure Simmons ate when he forgot. Donut forcing him to talk about his feelings when he got snippy. Sarge giving prideful comments when he did something noteworthy. He knew if he was gone, it would hurt them. It had nothing to do with that.

He just didn’t see the point in living a life with no meaning.

If all he was going to do was mull around in a half comatose state for the rest of his measly existence, attempt to fight off the feeling, only for it to attack again more viciously as it slowly took over, if this was the best the universe could offer him, he didn’t want to be apart of it.

Anything was better than living in a dead husk of a body. 

The heaviness grew in his chest as he flipped onto his back again. There it was. The only energy he seemed to possess anymore. Tightening around his lungs. And it refused to untangle itself from the mixed circuitry and blood vessels. A ball attempting to claw through his ribs. It wanted him to scream. It wanted to escape, even if it meant ripping through organs. Simmons sat up, throwing the blankets off of him, walking towards the drapes and drawing them back.

Sleep wasn’t coming. So he might as well just get the fucking day started.

He didn’t want to move. 

The armor looked heavy.

It was heavy.

His body was already heavy enough.

Instead, he sank into his desk chair, staring out the window at the vast green and brown terrain that led to Blue Base. At least the sun stayed frozen high in the sky. The light didn’t burrow a hole into his human eye. Everyone on both teams would be asleep. Nothing moved outside. The drumming of the blood rushing through his body, along with the electric buzz in his cyborg half, was all that could be heard. 

He sighed, rubbing his hands over his face. He knew if he voiced his thoughts to his team, they wouldn’t understand. Either they thrived in the routine or didn’t give a shit. Simmons should have loved the regular schedule the military gave him. Systems that made sense were what he lived for. Yet it was beginning to feel more and more like a cage than a regulated lifestyle.

Time passed. Eventually, his body succumbed to exhaustion, head managing to hit the pillow instead of the hard metal desk. His alarm went off a couple of hours later.

Nothing changed. He was still in Blood Gulch. With the same stupid team. Doing the same idiotic things.

He made his way to the kitchen, clasping the last of the armor together. He’d grab his helmet from his room after he ate. Grif was inhaling a box of chocolate donuts the pink armored man had managed to smuggle with his shipment of contraband. Donut was trying to convince Sarge to let him decorate the living room again, though it seemed to be going as well as one could expect. Lopez was drinking motor oil in a corner. Simmons grabbed an MRE from the cabinet, ripping open the package and choking down the dry bread-like food. It was the easiest thing for him to eat with no preparation. 

He walked towards the entrance of the base, figuring he could dig through Sarge’s stash of mechanical parts to fix the base’s computer when he heard Grif’s footsteps following him. Before he could scold the orange soldier, the heavier man called Simmons’ name.

“Hm,” he responded, turning around before he was forced to stand out in the sweltering sun. Grif was still in his black sweats and orange ‘I love Hawaii,’ shirt. Showing his one tan arm, one donated pale arm. Skin grafts littering his body. Brown curly hair beyond regulation length. Not that anyone cared here. Yet even with these changes, he was still nonchalant Grif. As he always was. Stuck in a base in the middle of nowhere, as it had been since basic for both of them. No matter how much had changed, nothing had. 

Grif’s hazel eyes stared at Simmons. “You ok?” 

“Of course,” Simmons lied. What else was he going to say? Sorry, but my head has been in the clouds for who knows how long and I hate my own existence? That would go well. 

“Really?” Grif raised his eyebrows. 

“Yeah,” Simmons squeaked. Ok, fine, he knew he was a terrible liar, but with his brain still lagging a few seconds from lack of sleep, the last thing he wanted was to hold a conversation.

“You usually walk out of base without your helmet?” 

Simmons pursed his lips. He didn’t have a comeback for that one. He sighed, walking back into the base. “No,” he mumbled, stepping around Grif. Grabbing his helmet off the desk. Clasping it on. Walking past his team. Continuing with his day as per usual. 

\---

Despite the fact the Blues didn’t attack them anymore, they still had to be on the ready. After the Tex and Wyoming incidents, they could never be too prepared. 

So Grif and Simmons still had to stand guard every day. If Simmons was going to be honest, It was the one thing he looked forward to. They had known each other for years. Their talks had developed from bitter remarks to friendly banter, sometimes even philosophical or personal discussions. It was these moments Simmons had learned Grif had been drafted. That the Hawaiin witnessed a massacre on a planet and was rewarded by being shipped back to basic. That the moronic woman on the other side of his canyon was his sister. How much Sister meant to him. It was easy for them now to just ask each other dumb shit and expect an actual answer, along with a respectable amount of snark. 

Which was probably why the question had fallen out of Simmons’ mouth before he had a chance to think it through. 

“Are you happy?” he asked. The visor of the orange helmet slowly turned towards him. Simmons felt his cheeks heat up. What had he been thinking?

“What?” 

He knew Grif heard him. Simmons couldn’t back out the question now that it was in the air though. “Are you happy?” he repeated.

The helmet tilted, the occupant inside processing the question. “Like right now?”

“Like...ever?”

Grif shrugged. “I mean, yeah, not all the time, but I guess. Why?”

Simmons felt his heart sink. Why did he ask it? He knew the answer wouldn’t be what he wanted to hear. “The world doesn’t seem...gray?” Why was he still asking?

He could see the gears slowly ticking in Grif’s head. “I mean, Blood Gulch is a bit of a drag, everything stays the same, but it’s not bad.”

“You hate it here,” Simmons snapped. 

“Doesn’t mean it's bad,” Grif replied. “Why?”

This was the proof he needed, he guessed. They wouldn’t understand. There was no point to this conversation. Grif would just think he was a lunatic if it continued. “Nothing,” he tersely said, turning his visor away from the man. They stood looking out over the gulch. Even with the coolers in his armor working, the heat from the paralyzed sun was sweltering. Sweat dripped down next to his human eye. His jaw clenched. It was always something. 

“You wanna talk about it?” he heard Grif ask. It would help. Simmons knew it probably would. Be better than just walking off the edge of the base right now. Though he’d just end up breaking his arm with the power armor on. 

“No,” he spat instead.

They spent the rest of their shift staring into the unmoving openness. Simmons wondered if Blue team dealt with similar issues. Probably not. They had enough drama in their lives, they didn’t get a chance to feel bored and useless. When time was up, he turned and headed for the ramp back into base. 

“Simmons.” The maroon soldier froze, waiting for the other man to continue. “I know I’m not the best at the talking and feelings crap, but, if you need to talk, you can. You always have been able to. I just, I guess I never really said it before.”

It’s not that they didn’t care. Simmons knew they did. That was never the problem. “I don’t want to talk,” he said instead.

“Ok.” Simmons walked into the base, heading for his room to sit and stare into nothingness again.

\---

It had been the same as every other night. Tossing and turning. Restless. Blank mind. Carnivorous thoughts. A suffocating swarm refusing to let him see the light of day. 

But tonight the ball inside his chest had clawed through his throat. Tears snaked their way towards the bed sheets as his breaths came in uneven and hollow. Everything hurt and he hated that it always did.

A knock was heard on his door. He held his breath, doing his best to feign sleep. The knock came again.

“Simmons,” he heard Grif mumble. “Simmons, are you awake? I...I just need a moment.”

A sigh escaped him. He knew what that meant. The nightmares of his first base’s attack had returned. As much as he didn’t want to let the man in, he got up and wiped his face, opening the door to reveal Grif hunched over, hugging his pillow.

“Thanks,” the Hawaiin mumbled. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“Nah,” Simmons croaked. He tried to clear his throat, but Grif’s eyes already wandered towards his face. He could only hope the darkness of the room would cover any evidence of his earlier meltdown.

It didn’t. 

“Were you crying?”

“No,” Simmons instinctively answered. It wasn’t fooling anyone. He turned away from Grif.

“Simmons -”

“You came to me, presumably to take your mind off of whatever you dreamt, so why don’t we just joke around like usual and call it a night?” Simmons tried to redirect the attention away from him. Unsuccessfully.

“Because I’m worried about you,” Grif muttered.

Simmons’ chest grew heavy, throat closing up as the threat of tears returned. “There isn’t anything to be worried about,” he whispered.

“Really?” The disbelieving tone put Simmons on the defense. He wanted to snap. To turn around and prove that everything was perfectly fine. He whipped around to see Grif’s concerned eyes.

In just that one look, the wall around Simmons began to crack. Maybe because he just didn’t care. It was hard to give a shit about anything anymore. 

“I’m just...tired,” he murmured, sitting on the bed. Grif took the desk chair, pillow still hugged against his chest. “And not physically. Well, physically too. But just...I don’t have the energy to….well...to do anything. But not doing anything is...boring. I hate being bored. But I can’t bring myself to do anything.” He fidgeted with his hands, trying to formulate what’s been circling in his mind for years, one way or another. “I want to read. But my head hurts. I want to work on fixing the computer Donut broke. But my body is too lethargic to get near it. I want to learn a new language, just for the hell of it, but I just can’t find the wherewithal to do it. I’m just tired, and when I can do those things that bring some semblance of joy in my life, its...its just not the same. It’s like the dopamine hit I used to get diminishes constantly and now no matter what I do I just can’t be happy. Everything feels gray. Everything feels the same.” Simmons met Grif’s eyes, his own hot from the tears creeping out. His voice came out scratchy. “And it's not. Hammer isn’t here with us. We aren’t in basic. We aren’t fighting the Blues. We’ve gone on insane adventures, I’m sure with more to come. But everyday everything feels the fucking same, and I can’t break the cycle in my head and I just want to feel something! Anything! Even sadness!” His voice had risen, hands coming up and gesturing around the room. Slowly they fell back into his lap, dejected. “I’m just tired and numb and if this is all I can feel any more then sometimes I don’t even see the point of existing. Why exist if this is all there is to it?” Simmons rubbed his nose, sniffing as he continued. “I’m just...done. I don’t have the energy or motivation to live anymore.” He kept his gaze to the floor, knowing the guilt-ridden look that would plague Grif’s face. He didn’t want to witness it. “And I know that should be alarming, but I don’t even have the energy to be alarmed. I’ve fought for so long. Fought the thoughts and feelings. But fighting takes energy I no longer possess.” He searched his mind as he rubbed his eyes. He had nothing more to add. “I’m just done.”. 

The silence suffocated him. After all, he admitted to thoughts of self-destruction. What even was the proper way to react to that?

“Do you always feel this way?” Grif asked.

Simmons shrugged. “When I’m alone I slowly shut down. The thoughts lessen as I do things with you all. I think my mind is just preoccupied during those times. But I come into my room to go to sleep and just can’t. I can’t do anything but stare at a wall until the next day comes.”

“Then stop being alone,” Grif bluntly stated.

The stupidity of that statement caused Simmons to snap his head back towards Grif. “What the fuck does that mean?”

The Hawaiin hesitated. Oh no. Simmons knew that face. That meant he had an idea. One Simmons wouldn’t like. “If,” Grif spoke, “and only if you don’t mind, we could be roommates.” Simmons blinked. “Not saying that you will like it cause, sorry, but I ain’t picking up every piece of laundry I have, but at the very least you aren’t alone with your thoughts.” Grif played with the edges of his pillow as Simmons processed the request. 

“Grif, I couldn’t ask you-” Simmons started, but the heavier man interrupted. 

“And, it would help me. Ya know. With the nightmares and stuff.”

Simmons frowned at the mention of returned haunted dreams. “Have they been getting worse?”

“Yeah,” Grif nodded, looking down at his lap, curly hair falling in his face.

Simmons sighed. This was going to be a mess. No way they were going to be able to handle each other in close quarters. They barely handled each others living styles being in the same base! But so far, they were all they had. And it wasn’t the worst idea Grif had had. “Alright then. I guess that would be ok.” Simmons pointed his finger at his new roommate. “But you keep your mess on your side. And if we get fucking bugs you are out.”

The eye-roll could be heard across the gulch. “Fine, mom,” Grif whined. Simmons chuckled. It would be ok. Not perfect. Not always pleasant. But maybe, just maybe, things could get better.

**Author's Note:**

> Heyo, I’ve been a bit AWOL if you couldn’t tell from the lack of updates from other stories. Had performances and stuff going on. On top of that, I’ve been battling depression for years now and it hit really hard these past couple of weeks and it kept me from doing anything. I think I’m out of the funk at the very least. Writing this story helped, I tried both from Simmons’ and Grif’s view and for some reason writing it in Simmons’ view resonated with me more. I also kind of wanted to write this because I often see pieces in which people are suicidal because they don’t feel they belong in the world or no one cares about them. No one writes about when they just no longer have the energy to exist, and when the world feels dull, which is what tends to happen to me when my depression hits hard. I thought this could bring a bit of awareness to that as well.
> 
> If you are feeling suicidal, please reach out to the National Helpline 1-800-273-8255


End file.
